


Treasures Indeed

by icarus_chained



Category: Original Work, Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: 1960s, Backstory, Childe/Sire Bond(s), Clan Rivalries, Clans, Companionship, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Friendship, Hatred, Love, Monsters, New love, Refuge, Starcrossed Relationship, Vampires, World War I, broken bonds, challenge, flight, thieves, triumph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: A bitter, exiled Toreador thief falls into the gentle clutches of a friendly Nosferatu. Not without horror, of course. And not without hope.





	Treasures Indeed

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know, I'm a bit obsessed with the Toreador/Nosferatu thing. Ah. Sorry about that?

"So what happened between you and your sire then, hmm?"

Lewis roused himself at that one, rolled his head sideways along the arm of her sofa to stare at her in wary startlement. He'd tensed, a little. Therese had been expecting that. He didn't object, though. She'd thought, hoped, that he might not. She took it as the permission it was, and offered a wry little shrug as she continued.

"Call me curious," she said, leaning back in her own chair to study him some. A fine hobby, that. Plenty of nice things to look at. As skewed as her interpretations sometimes tended to be, even she noted that. Rather often. He smirked lazily at her, and she offered a friendly, vulgar salute in return. "Come on, Louie. You will admit you're something of a curiosity. One hears all sorts of rumours about you, especially lately. I haven't seen you in months. Now that I have you back in my clutches, so to speak, will you really deny me a question or two?"

It was wheedling, but only a little bit. There was a fine line with Louie. He liked a little performance to tease, but too much of one and he closed off, packed himself away behind a brighter, ever so much more dazzling performance of his own. If you really wanted the truth from him, you had to ask for it up front, and blunt as the face of a hammer. He'd forgive the worst questions in the world that way. Maybe not _answer_ them, you understand, but forgive them. It was slyness and subterfuge that he wouldn't countenance.

Which was an interesting peccadillo, for a conman of his calibre, but then maybe that was why. All the lies and the masks were for the outside world. Between friends, a little honest truth went a much longer way. Maybe that wasn't so surprising.

And besides. She had reason to think he would answer this one, all peccadilloes aside.

"A curious thing, that's me," he agreed, in that soft, rough voice of his. His natural accent, down here. He'd polish it up for finer company, add a sprinkling of French across the top. With her, it was pure city drawl, low class and vulgar and all the happier for that. He smiled at her, languid in his chair. "Well then, my lady. Since I do lie in your clutches. What is it you'd like to know?"

Therese laughed. "Oh, _lots_ of things," she said, as she laid the pretty presents he'd brought her to one side and curled herself more comfortably in her chair. He'd outdone himself this time, as he always did. Such lovely little baubles he always brought. They were treasures, but never nearly so much as his company. "I'd pick your pretty brain out of your head if I could, you know that. I've been wondering this one for a while, though. You keep such an interesting choice of company, my dear. Knowing our society as I do, I do wonder what it was that drove you to it. Professional allure aside, of course. I fully understand why you should seek us out on _that_ count. One does endeavour to learn only from the best, after all."

He snorted, tipping his head back to stare up at her rough-hewn ceiling. "Humble as ever, I see," he commented lightly. She didn't bother answering. He knew full well how prideful she deserved to be. He carried on after a moment anyway. Low, and thoughtful, and prevaricating all the way. "That alone would be enough, you know. I live for what I do, and there's none better at it than you and yours. There's no thrill in the world like working with one of you. My sire's got nothing to do with that, and long may it stay that way. She's taken enough from me without interfering with my livelihood as well."

'Livelihood', he said. Hah! Oh, what a pretty joke that was. A job, hmm? Not his art, his passion, his soul, his reason for being. The joy of his nights and the promise of his future. None of that. Oh, how ridiculous. How clumsily he shielded himself sometimes. 

Only when he was telling the truth, though. Only when he was being honest. When he lied, he could make a fatal wound seem as if it had never struck at all.

"... Maybe it would be enough," she said, and gently now. Gently, since he'd earned it from her. As none of his kind ever had or ever would again. For him, for her beloved Louie, she would be gentle. "Maybe we are perfectly sufficient on our own. I've never doubted that. But we're not all there is, are we? We're not the thing that shaped you. You embrace us readily enough, but we're not what made you what you are. Why don't you tell me, Louie. It's been a long few years. Why not get it off your chest?"

He laughed harshly. "Maybe I like it on my chest," he said, the accent thickening to a cold snarl. "Maybe I like it where it is. Don't I have rights to secrets too, Therese? You don't have a monopoly there. Maybe there's some treasures I don't feel like offering you."

She let that pass. She let it sting and slide away. He didn't mean it. Not this time, anyway. He did have secrets, she was sure of that. He did have wounds and treasures he never planned to offer her, and that was fine. This wasn't one of them, though. If this had been an answer he'd never planned to give, he'd have tensed and he'd have left, or he'd have wrapped himself up in some easy illusion and lied to her through his teeth. More likely the former. He did try not to lie to her. As difficult as it was for him, as strange and alien as honesty could sometimes be, he did try not to lie. His gift, in return for all she'd offered him, in return for every moment of shelter and challenge and camaraderie they'd shared. His gift, and never had she been offered finer.

"I won't tell anyone, Louie," she said quietly. Leaning out over the arm of her chair, brushing her knuckle gently against his cheek where he lay on her sofa. Looking at it, her hand, her skin, grey and mottled against the delicate softness of his face. She shook her head, smoothing strands of gold-brown hair back behind his ear. "We can be trusted with secrets, you know, when they belong to friends. This one's for you and me, and maybe my clan as well. We're not comforting to you. I know that. I see it. You give us more than many would ever countenance, but we frighten you nonetheless. What did she do, to drive you into our arms?"

He closed his eyes. He tipped his head towards her, leaned it into the touch of her hand, but he closed his eyes. He loved her, she thought, and trusted her, but the sight of her had always tortured him. More so than was normal, even for one of his kind. This was no aesthetic revulsion. It was fear. Genuine horror. And yet, here he was. Languid and trusting, tipping his face into her hand. Yet he came to her before all others. Yet he chose her first and always.

"She robbed me," he said, soft and rueful, and suddenly rather young. He'd be sixty odd years old this autumn, and he sounded no older than the twenty something years he'd been when he died. "That more than anything else. She killed me, and she robbed me. It happens to all of us, I know. I shouldn't hate her just for that. I just can't help it, I suppose. She robbed me of something I wanted to keep. Thief though I am in my turn, I'm afraid I simply can't forgive her for it."

"For taking your life?" Therese asked, allowing a thread of scepticism into her voice, winding his hair around her finger. His eyes came open to look at her. His hand came up to catch hers, untangle it, and his mouth creased with gentle bitterness.

"No," he said, tugging her hand gently towards her chest instead. "Not my life. It was ... Don't laugh at me for this. I know the irony, believe me. It was something else she stole from me. An ... illusion. A pretty dream. She woke me up, showed me truth instead. I've hated her for it ever since."

Therese didn't laugh. She didn't, she wouldn't. It was said too softly for that, too raw and too old a wound. She raised her brows a little, though. In all her honest hideousness, with all their gifts of truth between them. He winced, and turned his face away.

"I know," he said, thin and careful. "I wasn't who I am now, back then. You have to understand, Tess, who I was when she caught me. What I was running from, what I was trying to hide behind. I needed lies, back then. I wanted them, I needed them. I clung to them so desperately. I didn't even realise it myself. That was the worst of it, I think. Until she reminded me so thoroughly, I'd forgotten I was lying to myself. I'd forgotten ... how very much of my life was a lie. All of it, from the ground up. I didn't ... appreciate the reminder. And, I suppose, I didn't appreciate the fresh lies she offered me afterwards either. I'd been fine with my own, and then she'd taken them. How dare she offer hers, thinking they were prettier. I despised her for it."

Therese's eyebrows bounced again at that, but she didn't comment. Not yet. She curled her hand through his instead, knobbled and grey atop his chest. She brushed her thumb across his knuckles. "You're skirting, Louie," she nudged gently. "Rip it out of a piece, my dear. You'll heal the quicker for it."

He snorted at that, black and sharp, but he took it with good grace. He always forgave bluntness, forgave truth. Now, she supposed, she might finally find out why.

"I was a thief," he said at last, looking back up at her ceiling once more. Keeping her hand trapped in his. Not that she couldn't pull it free if she wanted to, but it was a small enough thing to let him keep. "When she met me. I was a conman and a thief. The best in all the world, or so I thought then. The 20s were a good time for that. All dazzle and decadence, and crime lurking underneath it. I gloried in it. I had all the talent in the world, and all the reason to use it. The world owed me, I thought. It owed me anything I wanted."

She smiled slightly. "Not an unusual outlook, in the young," she pointed out, and pained as he was he allowed the humour. He smiled at her. Just faintly, but enough.

"Maybe so," he allowed. "I had a particular reason for it, though. I had a particular horror that I thought the world owed me for. I suppose a lot of us did, back then. All of us young men. Those of us who'd made it that far. Those of us who'd ... survived."

And Therese understood then. She'd wondered before, but knew it for certain now. Well, she'd been there, after all. She'd seen it, if never directly. She was an older monster than that. She'd been underground long before then. She'd seen it anyway. There'd been few enough in all the world who'd missed it. There'd been few enough able to escape.

"How old were you?" she asked quietly. "In 1917. How old were you?"

He laughed. Cracked and giddy and pleased. Looking over at her with a wry smile on his face. "I should have known you'd guess," he said, squeezing her hand. "Though it's not hard, I suppose. I was of age. Nineteen, nearly twenty. I shipped out to France with all my vim and vigour, full of pride and surety." Then he shook his head, the smile sliding away. "I came back in pieces. Less so than a lot of people, mind you. I still had all my limbs. Nobody had to glue my face back together with porcelain. I came out almost as pretty as I went in. Enough to earn immortality, as it turned out. No. Most of my scars were inside me, where nobody had to look at them."

Ah. Oh, Therese understood now. She saw a few things so much more clearly indeed.

"That's why we horrify you," she said, soft and hollow, enough that he looked at her. Enough that he clutched her hand tight in his. "That's why a part of you recoils, even now, even when you're trying not to. Not because we're hideous, or at least not just for that. You flinch from memory as well."

He didn't deny it. Credit to him, eternal credit to him, he didn't deny it. He didn't lie.

"Yes and no," he said, his expression near pleading, both his hands now tight around hers. "It's ... it's complicated, Tess. I can't help it. You're more than that, you're so much more, but you are ... a symbol, I suppose. Of what I escaped, and what I didn't. And what she did didn't help. How she did it. Please. Let me explain. Please?"

Therese ... sighed. She pulled her hand free from his, but only to reach up and touch him lightly on the cheek. Only to lean across, and cradle his face in her palm. She managed a smile for him, as crooked and ugly as her smiles always were.

"Don't fret, Louie. I know what you are, as much as you know what I am. Don't worry. It'll take more than flinching to drive this monster away. But tell me, regardless. Rip this thing out of a piece, my dear. Pull it up in one bloodied lump and show it to me. I'll not flinch for horror. You know that."

He stared up at her. Long and silent, a nameless sort of a thing in his face. And then, after an eternal minute, he closed his eyes again. And carried on.

"I wanted to escape it," he said, tired and ancient now, every one of his sixty odd years. "When I came back, after the war. I wanted out. I wanted something ... bright and beautiful and dazzling. Something to wipe the horror away behind me. Clubs. Parties. Diamonds. Pretty things. Anything that wasn't mud and blood and blasted limbs. Sickness. Hospitals. Disease. I wanted to wipe out all of that. But I hadn't the money for it. I hadn't the money for anything back then. And I _wanted_ it. I could have run guns. Liquor. There were plenty of opportunities for a man back from war. I didn't want to be some cheap thug, though. I wanted to be something _dazzling_. And I've always had a talent for talking my way into places. Used that in the war too, but it was prettier stateside. I could use it for prettier things. So I did."

Therese laughed faintly. Touched his cheek, her voice ripe with all her pride. "My pretty little thief," she murmured fondly. "I'll bet you were brilliant, even then. You've polished yourself up a lot since, but even raw your talent must have been spectacular."

His lips curved under her hand. "I was fantastic," he agreed, with never a sliver of humility. He opened his eyes, let them gleam whiskey-coloured up at her. "A regular Arsène Lupin. It was so much fun, Tess. They never knew what hit them. I had a story all shaped up. His name was Louis, Louis Danglars. A wealthy French nobleman, fled from the horrors of Europe, looking to ease his pain with all that America could offer him. I had all the tragic little details worked out. Even a keepsake or two, stuff I'd picked up in France. I mean, my French wasn't the best in the world, unless you counted swearing, but I'd made a few friends over there. I'd picked up enough to bluff. I milked it for all it was worth and more. Up and down the East Coast, charming my way into every house and hotel that would have me. It was the life, Tess. It was everything I'd wanted. Not just the luxury, the jewels, the money. It was the _life_. The thrill of the performance, the joy of knowing everything my marks didn't, the adrenalin of the thefts themselves. It was incredible. It was everything I'd ever wanted."

And there was that tinge to it now, that knowing, wry and rueful. She smiled lopsidedly at him. She cupped her palm about his cheek.

"And then it all went wrong," she said gently, wry and rueful herself. "Didn't it."

"Then it all went wrong," he agreed, wry and ancient and oh, so young. "I got caught up in my own lies. Started to believe them. I started to ... to forget what lay underneath them, underneath all that thrill and glamour. I got so caught up in Louis Danglars, I forgot about Lewis Denton. I forgot what he'd seen, forgot about all the horrors in the world. I mean, I'd _wanted_ to. That was what I was trying to do. And I succeeded. I succeeded so well I never saw her coming."

Therese closed her own eyes briefly, feathered her hand lightly through his hair. "Your sire," she said. It wasn't a question. She felt him nod beneath her hand.

"Her name was Annette Fitzwilliam," he said softly. "She was ... very beautiful. Very dazzling, very influential. She, ah. She had this sapphire parure that caught my eye. I saw her wearing it at this gala one night. I had to have it. Her too, I think. I wanted her for my mark. She was such a snob. I always hated those the worst. A bit of Lewis Denton still left in me, I suppose. She annoyed me. I wanted the pleasure of stealing from her. So I set out to reel her in. To charm her, court her, wriggle my way into her house and her graces. It went swimmingly. Hook, line and sinker. I just didn't realise which one of us was really holding the rod."

"Is that part of why you hate her?" Therese asked curiously. "Not just for killing you, stealing from you, but for beating you at your own game to do it?"

It would only be reasonable, honestly. They were creatures of pride, the both of them.

"... A little bit, I suppose," Louie said, after mulling on it for a second or two. His lips quirked, smiling ruefully up at her. "That was the least of it, I think. There were other things I hated far more. But yes, probably. I think there was a bit of wounded pride in there as well. There usually is."

She returned the smile happily, wicked and lazy. "So you were humble even then," she said, with a monster's happy grin. "How the decades have changed you, my darling."

"Oh, hush up," he shot back, raising his own hand at last to thwap her lightly on the arm. "As if you're any better. It's a wonder there's ever been room in this warren for both our egos. My congratulations to your architect. Michael, wasn't it? You should let him know. The ceiling holds up admirably under the strain."

She chuckled. "I'll tell him," she said. "He'll be so proud to have your seal of approval. My pretty boytoy, offering construction advice."

"Your _beautiful_ boytoy," he corrected mildly. "Not to mention charming, dashing, and wealthy as well. Do give me my due, Tess. I'm a treasure, am I not?"

"... You are indeed," she said, and more soberly than she should. He blinked at her, coiled ancient and hideous beside him, and his expression flickered oddly, his instinctive masks struggling against his honesty. The masks won, for now. She didn't quibble. Let him have a secret or two for another while yet.

"... Anyway," he said, sounding distant and vaguely dazed as he looked up at her. "Anyway. My sire. Annette. She, ah. Yes. She caught me. She ... lured me in, as I thought I was luring her. I don't think she knew what I was, at first. Not the thief part. She only wanted me because I was pretty, at first, and eager to pursue her. I'm fairly sure she fed from me several times while I stayed with her. I don't really remember, but I think so. But then ... then I played my hand. I tried to steal the parure. And she caught me. And she decided ..."

"To steal from you in turn," Therese finished softly. He nodded. Stiffly. Painfully. He nodded.

"I don't know if she meant to just kill me or not. She wasn't gentle. Maybe she did mean to kill me, and regretted it at the last minute. I am beautiful, you know. She told me that. I'm beautiful, and charming, and thief or no thief I have such an eye for beauty. I flattered her so well. She decided to keep me. To ... make me part of her collection, as I had wished to add her parure to mine. If I would steal a jewel from her, I must offer up one in return. My life, for her inconvenience. My service. My ..."

He stopped, and turned away. Tilted his head towards the back of the sofa, hid his face from her. Shame, she thought. Here, now, after so many years. Shame for _her_ , who had witnessed a thousand horrors, and perpetrated one or two as well. She refused it. Instantly and absolutely. She reached out, and tipped his head gently back around.

"Shall I be shocked?" she asked gently. "There are a thousand horrors asked of us out here. Shall I judge you for it, when so many of us climbed to the joys of power through filth and torment? Don't bother about it, Louie. It doesn't matter anymore. She has no part of you now. You are a daring, wealthy thief, with all the midnight world at your feet. You go where you please and steal what you please, and slide through sewers to gift pretty baubles to wicked old monsters. You've earned your way, with honesty and daring and courtesy at every turn. Be damned to her Degenerates. Let them wither in their pretty parties and museums. Come play with us instead. Come thieve with us, and dance with us, come slip unseen through the world and liberate all its pretty secrets. There will be shelter here, when you need it, and joy and dazzlement when you want that too. I promise you, Louie. I promise you."

He stared at her. So pained and beautiful, with whiskey eyes and gold-brown hair, and all the suspicion and cynicism in the world in that young face and those ancient eyes. She could see his honesty struggling. His shame, his guilt. His horror and his need. She'd offered too bluntly, too openly, but it was long past time. He'd been their companion for years now. On purpose, of course, for a reason, but even still. He had never let them down, for all of that. They'd been watching. Her brood, the others he'd worked with, over the years, and he had worked with a few. They were consistently his first choice when he needed partners for his thefts, and she thought for more than professional reasons too. They'd been watching him, one and all. 

And he'd passed their judgement. He'd never reneged on any debt, never lied that any of them could catch, never failed to be courteous. He had helped them when he could, had offered aid without any prompting. He had delighted in them too, for all his horror. He had played their games and entered their challenges, raced with them laughingly through evenings of theft. He had defended them, too. It never held much weight, he was too much an outcast himself, a jet-setting thief too enamoured of the human world and too much on the move to have influence in any one place. He had defended them, though. He had spoken sharply and viciously on their behalf. It was enough to earn him an offer, had he all the ulterior motives in the world.

"... You know I'm manipulating you, don't you?" he asked. Softly, so softly. His masks clamoured to shield him, but his honesty won. A mask and a manipulation in itself. Oh, he was so lovely. Such a battered, wounded treasure. "You know I'm trying to win my way into your graces. You can't ..."

"Shall I be shocked?" she asked again, light and gentle while she cradled him. "Oh Louie. After all this time, my dear, can you doubt me so much? We're too old and wicked now for pretty lies. That's why you come to us, isn't it? When we horrify you. When we're living, walking reminders of the war you never escaped. Hideous we may be, but at least we're honest too. We'll tell you up front we're lying to you, and we'll be lying still, but it'll be the truth as well. That's what you want, isn't it. That's what you need. Truth and shelter, and the honesty of horrors who don't hide behind pretty faces to snare unwary thieves. Aren't I right?"

He didn't close his eyes. This once, he didn't close his eyes. He sat up and faced her properly. He didn't flinch or look away. Honesty. Honesty and daring and courtesy, as he'd offered from the first. Far better gifts than pretty baubles. A thousand times.

"I never forgave her," he whispered. "I never will. She pulled me right back into the war. She twisted everything I'd wanted, everything I'd become. It's all lies. She showed me that. Lies hiding monsters, and the war forever underneath. And then she lied to me again. She ... she made me love her. Her blood. She made me love her, her world and her beauty and her pretty things, but all the while I _knew_. I knew the monster underneath it all. I couldn't lie to myself again, and I couldn't bear it when she lied to me either. I could feel my love for her, and I knew all the while it was false. So I ... I played it for her. I played the lie, all the way to the hilt. I gave her Louis Danglars. I made him love her, with all his heart and all his passion, and I kept ... I kept Lewis Denton for myself. His war. His bitterness. His knack for lies and thieving. I kept those, kept them hidden, until she believed in the love Louis gave her too much. Until she lowered her guard. Gave me openings. And then ... then I stole myself. Then I won myself away. And I took some other things too while I was at it."

That last was a growl, low and savage, and she beamed at him for it. Pride. Such pride. Her friend, her darling, her lovely thief with his whiskey eyes and the war beneath his skin. "A sapphire parure?" she asked, light and vicious, knowing all the while. He grinned at her, all teeth, and she knew.

"Exactly that," he said, hard and triumphant. "It took me more years than I'd planned, but I had it from her in the end, and immortality too. She may be a better monster than me, but I'm the better thief. I had it from her. In the end, I had it from her."

"I know you did," Therese said, meaning every word. "Louie. _Lewis_. Haven't you won every challenge we've set you? Don't we know you for the thief you are? And that's what you have, my dear, that she cannot touch. That's what you _are_ , that she cannot touch. She thought you stole for wealth, didn't she? To surround yourself with wealth and beauty. And maybe you agreed, at first, because you did want that. That's why you made Louis Danglars, that's why he was born. But it's more than that. It's so much more. You don't care about the baubles, my dear, do you? Not really. You care about the _theft_. You care about the thrill and the daring and the artistry of it. You care about making the world give you what it owes you, and about doing it with such style and panache that even your victims must look at you in hateful admiration. God love her, when she took you, she was wrong and she was right at the same time. You're an artist to your bones, and a vicious one at that. You care about _winning_. Maybe you ran from war, but you were born for it all the same."

She stopped, there. Halted herself, reined herself it, conscious suddenly that she'd knelt up in her chair, that she was pressing both her hands into its arm and leaning ferociously forwards towards him. He was staring at her, again. It wasn't guilt this time, though, or horror, or confusion, or any fragile, hidden thing. It was blank amazement instead. It was an empty, trembling thing, quivering on a brink. She saw it. She measured it. And then ...

Then she laughed. She let herself slump, let her elbows bend and drop her back down into her heap of grey, knobbly limbs. She sighed, and leaned on her arms, and reached out to touch him gently on the knee.

"Ah love," she said ruefully. "Forgive me, my dear. Forgive an evil old monster some excitement, hmm? But you really should stop hiding, Louie. Except where it's useful, of course. You're a monster now, my dear, and not ill-suited for it. Be honest about it. Wear it proudly. You've fought your wars twice over, and you haven't lost them yet. Be damned to Annette Fitzwilliam, my love. I know she hates you. I know she poisons everything she can against you. I know if she had her way your entire clan would turn you aside. But you know what? Be _damned_ to them. Steal yourself a new clan. Spit in their eye and dare them to critique your performance. Rob them blind and make them pay you for it. Come be monsters with us, Louie. Come be thieves. Come wear your war wounds openly and proud. Come lie because the lies are fun, not because you believe in them. Come be honest. Come be _free_."

He laughed. Cracked and raw and disbelieving. Delighted, for all that. Dazed and dazzled and delighted. His hands were locked on the edge of the sofa, his whole body teetering on the brink. He looked at her, his scars ripped up of a piece, battered and bloodied and horrified, and _delighted_. Through all the horror, delighted still.

"And here I thought I was seducing you," he said, distant and wry. "Here I thought I was the one fishing. Am I ever going to get the rod in my hand?"

She laughed at him. But gently. So gently. Hadn't he earned it, after all? "You're young yet, my dear," she said wryly, patting him gently on the knee. "Give it time. You'll get there. Give it a decade or two and you'll be playing all the old monsters for fiddles. You've got the talent for it. A thief to your bones. You've just got to live that long, that's all. You've just got to stay alive."

He looked at her. Hollow and tired and whiskey-eyed. Wryly hopeful. "And will you help me with that?" he asked. "Will you help me stay alive, Tess? Will you help me spit in everyone's eye?"

And she smiled, there. She leaned over to take his hand, to pry it carefully from its white-knuckled grip on the sofa and lift it to her lips. She kissed his knuckles softly. He didn't flinch. His horror lingered, even still, but he didn't flinch. Not just courage, she thought. Not anymore. He tipped himself willingly into her hands. It was a sacrifice, a gesture of trust. A gift. Such a gift. She'd happily burn the world for it.

"My dear," she said, his hand in hers. "My treasured friend. Nothing in the world would please me more. I promise you."

Be damned to it, you see. The world was a horror anyway. Be damned to it and happily.

**Author's Note:**

> This is set roughly mid-sixties, for the curious. Louie was Embraced in 1924, aged 27. Therese is a bit older, I think Embraced sometime in the 1860s/70s.


End file.
